Flowers in Her Hair
by honeybunchesofgoats
Summary: The tale of Éomer and Lothíriel, transposed into different times, lands, and circumstances. In other words, a collection of oneshots capturing moments in their (sometimes) great romance. Chapter 1: In Which Lothíriel Insists She Is Not Dumpster Diving
1. Chapter 1

**Flowers in Her Hair**

 **Chapter 1: In Which Loth** **íriel Insists She Isn't Dumpster Diving**

It is an upset Éomer that stomps down the streets of Minas Tirith, kicking cigarette butts and crushed soda cans out of his way and resenting the shiny gleam of his dress shoes on concrete.

He doesn't like attending big company events, never has, but tonight's mixer felt even worse than usual. Logically, Éomer knows it's just because it's his first big event since his uncle died, since the company was left to him to run, but the rest of him screams that this isn't what he's meant to do, isn't what he's good at. _I'm going to run this company into the ground,_ he thinks grimly. _I'm too rash, too hot-headed, too inexperienced, too incapable. I'll destroy everything Uncle has worked so hard to build._

The emotion bubbling up inside him is too much to suppress, so Éomer unleashes all his anger and grief upon another soda can, this time not quite empty, kicking it as hard as he can and sending it flying at the dingy wall of the alley he's pacing in. Unfortunately, the can catches the wall at the perfect angle to come flying back into his face, and before he knows it, he's drenched in lukewarm soda with a gash on his cheek from the soda tab. Even more infuriated now, both at his situation and his stupidity, he winds back to throw the can again.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice interrupts cheerfully. "I don't think it'd hit you again, but it might hit me, and with my luck I'd get some kind of nasty infection and be bedridden for days. And we all know how boring being bedridden is."

Éomer wheels around, hand on the knife he always keeps with him, and it takes him a couple seconds of spinning around like a dog chasing its tail to locate the owner of the voice. _It's not entirely my fault it took me so long,_ he thinks with a frown. _I didn't expect someone to be in the dumpster._

The girl rests her chin on the back of one hand, which is gripping the side of the dumpster, and grins at him with a flash of white teeth. She's almost completely buried in trash - there's even a cheap plastic lei someone threw out slung haphazardly over her head, the fake petals crushed and dirty - but her skin is smooth and her grey eyes twinkling, and Éomer wonders just what exactly a nice-looking girl like her is doing in the trash.

"I'm not dumpster diving or hiding a body in the trash, in case you were wondering," she says, all matter-of-fact. "I'd dumpster dive on one of the higher levels of the city if I really wanted anything of value, and you can check if I'm hiding a body in here if you'd like."

Éomer stares at her in disbelief. _Who is this imp?_ "I'd rather not, thanks."

She shrugs. "Suit yourself. I know if I found a stranger hiding in a dumpster, a dead body would be the first thing I check for. Actually, I checked this dumpster for corpses before I climbed in. Personal hygiene and all that, you know."

"Ah," Éomer says faintly, feeling rather out of his element. "And what exactly are you doing in the dumpster, if you're not treasure hunting or stowing away corpses?"

The girl laughs, and Éomer wishes he could bottle away the sound, it's so happy and bright, nothing like what he usually feels at this time of night. "I'm hiding, silly."

"Hiding from who?" He scans the alley for signs of other people but finds none. It's almost dawn now, and no one is around but the two of them. "Is someone chasing you?"

"You could say so." The voice comes from the side of the alley Éomer entered from, and Dumpster Girl yelps in surprise at the dark-haired man who appears with a maniacal grin on his face.

"Run!" she cries, vaulting out of the dumpster with remarkable velocity considering the amount of trash she was buried in. Grabbing Éomer's hand, she pulls him along after her, and Éomer nearly falls flat on his face trying to keep up with her.

 _Bema, she's fast!_ She bobs and weaves, turning corners with no regard for Éomer and his too-small, pinching dress shoes, and before long they're jumping over trash cans in a part of the city Éomer has never seen before. _I hope this isn't some sort of set-up where I get robbed at gunpoint,_ he thinks. _Eowyn will murder me if I get killed and leave her in charge._

Dumpster Girl pulls him into another alley and stops, heaving for breath but grinning madly at the same time. "D'you think we lost him?" she whispers, breath blowing on his neck and making him shiver.

Éomer's having a hard time thinking because she's _so, so_ close to him and that mischievous grin is making his brain turn to jelly, and she still has that stupid plastic lei tangled in her hair, but all it does is make her look more rumpled and adorable. "You're not going to mug me, are you?" he whispers back, and that makes the girl toss her head back and laugh.

"Only if you're actually helping Amrothos lay a trap for me." The name Amrothos sounds vaguely familiar and for some odd reason reminds him of a meeting he'd had earlier that day, but Éomer is too busy trying not to stare like a fool at her to ponder much more on that.

 _It's not fair,_ he thinks in a haze, _she shouldn't be this attractive when she smells like trash and is covered in who knows what, but somehow she is._

The girl remains blissfully unaware of Éomer becoming an unsalvageable, goopy mess inside and smiles up at him again. "You're not, right? You seem like a nice guy. You wouldn't set me up for my first loss ever in extreme hide and seek, right?"

Éomer blinks. "Extreme hide and seek?"

She nods, the lei dangling from her hair flopping up and down. "It's a family tradition! Not that Father knows about it. But the rest of us always play it at night when we visit the city. I've never lost a game yet - Erchirion claims I lost once when I was seven, but he's a liar, don't believe him."

Something about the way she talks reminds him of Eowyn, or at least Eowyn as she was before Grima joined the board of directors and slithered his way into the company. Eowyn as she should have been, he thinks with a frown, carefree and confident in her youthful energy. He appraises Dumpster Girl again, eyes lingering on her dancing grey eyes and the smattering of freckles that testify to happy days spent in the sun. If he had to guess, he would say she's maybe five years younger than his sister. Five years ago, Eowyn would have loved to run free in the city at night too. Not that she wouldn't enjoy it now, but the time for playing games is over for both siblings, for better or for worse.

The thought brings the frown back to his face, which Dumpster Girl doesn't miss. Laying a hand on his arm, she peers at him, laugh dying on her lips. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Éomer feels a twinge of regret at putting an end to her mirth. It's refreshing to be around someone so unmarred by the cruelty of life. "It's nothing."

She makes a face at him. "That's your lying face, isn't it? I've only known you for twenty minutes and I can already tell."

Shifting on his feet, Éomer grimaces. "No?"

She snorts and pats his arm again, this time to get his attention. "Hey, I'm getting thirsty from all this running around. What do you say we go grab a coffee and you can complain about whatever it is that's bothering you there?"

"What - why would you want to grab coffee with a complete stranger you met in a back alley?" Éomer asks, appalled. Coffee does sound awfully nice to him right now, especially if he gets to drink it with this strangely attractive girl, but he can't help but question her sanity just a little. "Do you have no sense of self-preservation?"

"Oh, I have plenty of that," she says happily, already dragging him out of the alley. "Too much of it, according to Amrothos, because I throw him under the bus all the time when Father gets angry about something we did. But anyway, why not? I like you, you like me, and I like coffee. It's a match made in heaven!"

Éomer gapes at her. "You - you like me?"

Pausing to peek around the corner for this Amrothos fellow, she shushes him, then straightens back up when she sees the coast is clear. "Of course I do, silly. Otherwise I would've let you keep throwing that soda can at the wall until you had a concussion."

Reminded of the soda, Éomer glances down and grimaces. There's an ugly brown splotch on the right side of his shirt, his pants are still dripping soda, and his shoes are horribly scuffed. A glance at his dumpster-frequenting companion reveals she's not in much better of a state, and she certainly smells much worse. "Are there even any coffee shops open at this time of night? And will any of them let us in?"

She winks. "I know a place. Don't worry, we'll be fine."

Something about her expression tells him that _yes, he should worry, but more about losing his heart than anything else,_ and he swallows, his mouth feeling awfully dry all of a sudden. "Alright then," he says, brushing his hands off on his pants. "Lead on."

Grinning, she takes his hand. "My my, what a brave soul you are."

"Éomer," he says, and smiles back shyly. "My name is Éomer."

"Yeah?" The sparkle in her eyes takes his breath away. "Well Éomer, it's nice to meet you. I'm Lothíriel."

Hand reaching up almost unconsciously to touch the crushed lei in her hair, Éomer can't help but laugh. _Lothíriel. A flower-garlanded maiden indeed._

* * *

 ** _A/N: I'm not sure how many oneshots will be part of this collection, but there will definitely be more coming. Reviews, follows, and favorites are all greatly appreciated!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**In Which Firefoot is a Nuisance**

Éomer Eomundson is no small man - he towers well over the heads of his peers, and all those hours training at the gym have made him a veritable wall of muscle - but judging only by the way Firefoot is dragging him around the park, one might think he weighs about as much as a flea.

"You damn dog," he mutters, giving up on pulling the giant German Shepherd back. "Do you really have to sniff every single fire hydrant in the area?"

Firefoot pays him no heed, stretching at the leash to nose at the fire hydrant. Groaning, Éomer trods after him and rubs at his eyes with the hand that isn't holding the leash. It's just past six in the morning, which is too early to be chasing after his dog in his books, and he hasn't even had time for his customary morning coffee. His head still feels stuffy and slow, like it's been stuffed with cotton. _Coffee,_ he thinks, _I need coffee. Or sleep. Or maybe a dog that doesn't insist on waking me up this early for a morning jog._

Apparently done with the fire hydrant, Firefoot pads back over and headbutts him in the thigh, rolling big, brown, affectionate eyes upward, and Éomer gives in with a sigh and a chuckle, scratching him on his favorite spot between the ears. Firefoot's a nuisance, but he's a lovable nuisance and never fails to remind Éomer of that second part. _I'm such a sucker for ridiculously large, ridiculously adorable dogs._

As Éomer is scratching dutifully away, Firefoot's ears prick up and he shakes off his master's hand, turning to stare at the entrance to the park. Éomer frowns, wounded by the rejection. "Fine. No more scratches for you. As if I care."

Firefoot ignores his false bravado, too distracted by whatever he's staring at. A second later, the German Shepherd is sprinting over the grass as fast as his long legs can take him, fire hydrant forgotten and master reduced to being dragged around screaming like flea-cargo all over again.

"Stop, boy!" Éomer nearly face-plants into the grass tripping over a branch. "Stop! Down!"

Eventually Firefoot does stop, skidding to a halt next to the front gates of the park, but he allows his master no respite. Barking at the enormous Newfoundland in front of him, Firefoot strains at the leash again and whines. Exhausted as he is, Éomer has no intention of letting his dog attack or jump another dog (Firefoot apparently believes in tough love and rough play), so he grits his teeth and yanks Firefoot away from the other dog, who is blinking placidly at them with chocolatey eyes.

"Oh, it's alright, I think he just wants to play!" A woman jogs over, holding a ball that must have been meant for the Newfoundland, and smiles at him. "I don't mind, really! Your dog looks very friendly."

Éomer looks up and almost swallows his tongue in shock. The Newfoundland's owner has a familiar, heart-shaped face; clear grey eyes framed by thick eyelashes; a shy smile growing less and less shy as the recognition sets in.

"Éomer?" she asks, warmth flooding into her voice. "I can't believe it! It's you, isn't it? Éomer from next door? It's me, Lothíriel!"

Éomer hasn't quite managed to unswallow his tongue, so he opts for what he hopes is a friendly smile. _Oh dear,_ he thinks, staring at his childhood friend, _it seems I'm not a sucker just for big dogs, but also big dogs' owners._

* * *

Lothíriel runs an animal shelter now, she informs him over coffee, but the Newfoundland is hers.

"His name is Amrothos," she says with a grin just as Éomer is sipping his drink, and he nearly dies choking on the scalding liquid. When he recovers, Éomer can't help but think the dog is much nicer than the person and far less infuriating. When he says so, Lothíriel laughs (much more gracefully than his half-choke half-guffaw earlier), and the sound brings back memories of hot summer nights spent splashing in the creek behind their neighborhood with her brothers and his sister.

"Where is Amrothos these days anyway?" he asks. When Lothíriel's entire family moved out of Éomer's neighborhood, he had been attending college and hadn't been able to make it back in time to say goodbye. He's always regretted not staying in touch.

"Amrothos?" She grins. "He's a standup comedian now. Pretty successful, too - his latest show sold out completely. Erchirion's in graduate school and Elphir's a lawyer."

Éomer marvels in silence. The siblings have all grown up well, and he can hardly believe he's sitting with little Lothí from next door having this conversation. She has definitely grown up well, he thinks appreciatively, watching her coo, rosy-cheeked, at Amrothos the dog and slip him treats through the window to where he sits on a leash outside. Something in his chest radiates warmth as he traces her movements with his eyes, and he's suddenly very grateful to Firefoot for choosing this morning to insist on an early morning walk.

That gratitude disappears not even a full minute later when the waitress comes to kick them out because Firefoot is urinating on one of the table legs outside.

* * *

 **As always, reviews, follows, and favorites are greatly appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**In Which Lothíriel Third Wheels**

Lothíriel groans, not for the first time today, as she watches her cousin caress his fiancee's cheek and gaze into her eyes lovingly. _It's like I don't exist,_ she thinks, grimacing into her glass of orange juice. _Just poof! Into thin air!_

It's not that she begrudges Faramir or Éowyn their happiness. Lothíriel really does think they're an adorable couple, and it's a relief to see her cousin finally find someone who makes him happy.

 _If only it didn't have to be the overly gooey, stomach-turning kind of happiness,_ Lothíriel thinks gloomily. _I might scream if they start cuddling at the bar and calling each other pet names like last time._ As if hearing her thoughts, Faramir leans in and quite literally boops Éowyn's nose with a finger, and the couple bursts into half-suppressed snickers, all while still holding hands.

Lothíriel thinks she might vomit. She hopes Faramir does, just so they can end the night early and all go home, but she knows he doesn't have nearly enough alcohol in his system for that yet. Just as she's fighting down the alternating urges to cry and scream, her phone pings.

 _You hanging in there?_

A smile tugs at her lips at the text, but she forces it down, glancing around her to make sure no one saw. Satisfied that Faramir and Éowyn are still occupied, she turns back to her phone and types a response.

 _Barely_.

The response comes almost immediately.

 _I would feel bad for you, but if I really felt bad then I'd have to take your place._

"Insufferable man. Chivalry is dead," Lothíriel mutters, but she's smiling all over again. She's never met him in person before, but she feels like she's known Éomer for ages by now - as Éowyn's older brother, he goes to the bars with Éowyn and Faramir on the Fridays when Lothíriel can't make it. After six months, it's become something of a routine - every other week, they switch off, and the person who isn't trapped with the lovebirds sends encouraging text messages throughout the night.

It's unfortunate that anyone has to watch over them at all, Lothíriel thinks, glancing over at the couple, but it's inevitable. Éowyn always gets wild ideas about "fun" things to do when she drinks, and Faramir can never resist going along for the ride when his inhibitions have been lowered by alcohol. It's usually relatively harmless stuff - skinny dipping in the Anduin, or trying to shimmy up traffic sign poles and conduct traffic with a tree branch - but with both of them being prominent public figures, it's risky.

Enter Éomer and Lothíriel, the only members of their respective families weak enough to Éowyn's puppy eyes to agree to watch over the couple.

 _To be fair,_ Lothíriel thinks, _Amrothos did try to play babysitter that one time._ She shudders. There was another person who should never be left unsupervised when inebriated. Her brother and Éowyn had convinced poor Faramir to prank call one of his clients the one and only time he had come along, and that had put a quick end to Amrothos tagging along. Lothíriel sighs again and checks her phone.

 _Any idea what sister dearest is plotting for tonight's drunken antics?_

Lothíriel glances over at Éowyn under her eyelashes and chokes on her drink.

 _Help! She's literally doodling Faramir's name with hearts all around it on a napkin! While he's right! Next! To! Her!_

Éomer doesn't respond for a minute, and Lothíriel strongly suspects he's busy laughing his head off at her misery. She has overheard his voice before when he calls Éowyn on the phone - only a few seconds each time, but just the memory of the rich rumble of his voice makes her shiver. _I wonder what his laugh sounds like,_ she thinks dreamily. _Is it all deep and rumbly like when he's talking, or is it all goofy and silly?_ The ping of a message notification interrupts her. She looks down and scowls at the laughing emoji Éomer has sent her, vowing revenge next time he's on babysitting duty.

 _Hope you're having fun mocking me :( Good luck getting any pity from me next week. Maybe I'll tell Éowyn to bring Faramir back to that karaoke bar again next time._

Her phone buzzes.

 _That's what you threatened two weeks ago too, sweetheart ;)_

Huffing, Lothíriel presses a hand to her cheek, trying to force the blush down. Faramir and Éowyn aren't nearly tipsy enough for her squirrelly behavior to go unnoticed, and she really doesn't want to explain her fledgling maybe-maybe-not relationship with Éomer to his sister. Gulping down another mouthful of ice-cold water, she taps out a reply.

 _You just wait, you evil troll. No crying to me next week when Faramir starts another rendition of "Ice Ice Baby" and you have to drag him off stage because he wants to crowd surf._

Really, it's a miracle nobody has gotten footage of Faramir's and Éowyn's drunken escapades yet, Lothíriel thinks with a shake of her head. The crowd surfing incident had been particularly dicey - luckily, Éomer knew the owner of that karaoke bar and had managed to keep it all under wraps, but not before the happy couple had earned a lifetime ban.

"My love," Faramir said, grinning goofily, "your hair - it shines with the light of ten thousand lightning bugs tonight."

Éowyn squeals and clutches his hand to her chest. "Oh! Lothi, did you hear that? What a darling, he said my hair looks like bugs!"

Panicking, Lothíriel taps out another message.

 _SOS! Code Lightning Bug, I repeat, Code Lightning Bug! This is not a drill!_

Next to her, Faramir clears his throat and stands up. "Like ten thousand lightning bugs, she glows," he declares, "and like Pinocchio, she has the most charming nose."

Éowyn swoons, placing a hand on her forehead.

"Her lips are softer than the softest of snows," he continues, "and she makes me tingle right down to my… toes."

Reaching over to refill Lothíriel's water, the bartender fails to contain his snort. _Éomer, hurry,_ Lothíriel thinks desperately. _Hurry, hurry, hurry!_

"No matter the clothes, no matter the pose" - Faramir lifts his hand in the air to demonstrate - "she outclasses her foes - "

Lothíriel bangs her head on the table. It's not an accident.

" - with her number of beaus - "

Éowyn shrieks in delight.

" - my heart's most darling rose - "

The bartender is in full-on hysterics where he's crouching on the floor, pretending to wipe up a spill as he shakes with laughter.

" - that fate for me chose - "

"I'm here, I'm here!" Lothíriel opens her eyes and lifts her head to see a panting, golden-haired man skid to a stop in front of her. "I'm sorry it took me so long!"

Jaw dropping, she stares at the handsome, earnest face in front of her. "É-Éomer?"

Grinning sheepishly at her, he extends a hand. "Yeah, that's me. Nice to finally meet you, although I wish it were under better circumstances."

She grasps his hand, marveling silently at the strength of his grip. "You… But how did you get here so fast?" Faramir's terrible poetry made it seem like an eternity, but she knows it's only been about a minute or so.

Flushing, Éomer rubs the back of his neck. Lothíriel is temporarily distracted by how adorable he is when he's embarrassed. "Well, to tell the truth…" He pauses, glancing at the floor before he works up the courage to continue. "Honestly, I've been meaning to come introduce myself to you in person the last couple weeks. I've been in the parking lot this whole time."

Lothíriel gapes. "You mean you've been… following us to the bar each week to try to see me?"

"Yeah." He shifts his weight. "But I swear it's not a creepy thing! Really, it's not!"

"I didn't think it was," she rushes to assure him, offering a smile. "In any case, I'm grateful you were close by tonight." In the background, she can still hear Faramir talking - he's moved onto something about "throes" now, and she's very glad Éomer came when he did.

Screwing up his face in disgust - apparently he overheard Faramir too - Éomer nods at the door. "Hey, do you want to get out of here? Maybe it's time for these two to face the music and deal with the consequences of their drinking by themselves. I'm pretty sure the bartender has cut them off anyway, and it seems they've channeled all their chaotic energy for the night into bad poetry."

Grabbing her purse, Lothíriel hops to her feet. "Never before have I heard sweeter words, Éomer Éomundson." Not sparing the sappy couple behind her another glance, she accepts his outstretched hand with a grin and follows him out of the bar.

Behind the bar, the bartender finally recovers from his laughing fit and caresses his aching ribs, letting out a couple last wheezes. Faramir and Éowyn exchange a glance, then sag in relief.

"Thank goodness Éomer finally got a move on," Faramir said, sitting back down and wiping his brow. "I was running out of words that rhyme with 'nose.'"


End file.
